


Take a Shot

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Archery, Fallen Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're standing out in the field behind the bunker on a sunny Thursday afternoon. It's become a ritual of theirs, this weapons training time. Every afternoon, if they don't have a hunt, they come out here with a new weapon so Cas can familiarize himself with the tools of his new trade.</p><p>The first few were easy: knives, swords and machetes weren't much different from Cas's angel sword and so he'd picked them up terrifyingly quickly. Guns came next: shotguns, pistols, rifles, even an old musket they'd found in a storeroom that shot perfect silver balls. Now they'd moved on to more complex weapons, ones Cas had used as an angel or as a human. Last week it had been a pike that the Men of Letters' notes claimed could kill a giant or a griffon with a single blow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Shot

**Author's Note:**

> big ol' thanks to Lily for the beta :)

"First things first." He hands Cas the bow, the string, and a long cord with a loop at one end and a pocket of leather at the other. "Gotta get it strung."

Cas loops an end of the bowstring over each limb carefully.

"Hook the small loop in the grooves--" Dean reaches into Cas's space and tugs the loop into place-- "then stick the tip into the pocket on the stringer and the other side around the other limb."

They're standing out in the field behind the bunker on a sunny Thursday afternoon. It's become a ritual of theirs, this weapons training time. Every afternoon, if they don't have a hunt, they come out here with a new weapon so Cas can familiarize himself with the tools of his new trade.

The first few were easy: knives, swords and machetes weren't much different from Cas's angel sword and so he'd picked them up terrifyingly quickly. Guns came next: shotguns, pistols, rifles, even an old musket they'd found in a storeroom that shot perfect silver balls. Now they'd moved on to more complex weapons, ones Cas had used as an angel or as a human. Last week it had been a pike that the Men of Letters' notes claimed could kill a giant or a griffon with a single blow.

And today, it was a recurve bow.

"Okay, now hold the bow in one hand, horizontal to the round--" Dean's warm hand curls around Cas's and slides it into position, releasing it reluctantly-- "and step on the stringer's cord."

The bow bends and Dean guides Cas's fingers as they slip the other loop into the grooves on the limb. He sides the stringer off both sides and steps away, cheeks a little pinker than usual.

"So now you're just about ready to shoot." Dean steps up to the stick he'd laid across the grass and squints at the hay-filled crate they'd set out as a target butt. He'd nailed a piece of red cloth to the center as something to aim for and he's wondering if they should maybe start closer than twenty yards, but that's where John started him when he first picked up a bow at age six, so it shouldn't be too far for a fallen angel millennia old.

He picks up a cracking leather arm guard and straps it briskly over the former angel's bare forearm, trying not to let his fingertips linger on the smooth skin and soft hairs. His slides a finger tab onto Cas's other hand and steps back, just a few inches. He clips a quiver to Cas’s belt and his fingers brush the bare skin of the angel’s waist. Dean tries not to think about how warm it is as he pulls away.

“Clip an arrow onto the string, just below the nock, okay?” His voice is huskier than expected, and he clears his throat as Cas sets an arrow on the arrow rest and raises the bow.

The breeze is picking up, and Cas’s loose shirt–one of Dean’s, so it’s just a little bit big on him–blows in the shifting air and bares a strip of his hip. Dean tears his eyes from it when he feels Cas’s gaze on him.

“All right. Aim the bow first–” he waits until Cas has his arm steady in front of him– “and grip the string with three fingers, one above the arrow, two below.” Cas does so, but his body shifts sideways as he reaches for the string. “No, you gotta stay perpendicular to the line, Cas. No, turn the other way. No–” he sighs and steps closer again, this time up behind Cas, inches from his back.

He puts a hand on his right shoulder and pulls it back into alignment with his body. “Like this.”

Cas moves easily with his touch, leaning back against him just a little. Dean can’t help but lean in as well until their bodies are pressed together. He slides a hand along Cas’s outstretched arm until his fingers cup over Cas’s on the grip. Cas molds to him as Dean instinctively falls into the proper form; it’s been years since he last held a bow but it comes back quickly.

His mouth finds itself millimeters from Cas’s ear, and it’s easy to whisper instructions while pressed together like this. “Draw back slowly, Cas,” he breathes quietly, hand resting on Cas’s waist without a conscious instruction from Dean. “From the back, not the shoulder.” He feels Cas’s muscles contract against him and the sensation sends a wave of heat through him.

Cas’s arm draws back, elbow perfectly level, and Dean smiles against his cheek. “Good, Cas.”

He feels the tension building in Cas’s body, and his own tenses in response. The sensation seems removed from his conscious thoughts and a far off part of him hopes desperately that Cas doesn’t feel him hardening against his hip.

“Hold it until you’re sure you’re steady on the target.” His voice is low and he doesn’t even try to clear the husky tremor from it this time. His fingers have slipped under Cas’s shirt somehow and are stroking his hip. “You ready, Cas?”

Cas nods almost imperceptibly. The skin of his neck and cheek where Dean’s face rests seem almost impossibly warm, but Dean still shivers at the movement.

“Then let it go.”

Cas holds for a second longer, body tensing even more as he makes a minute adjustment in his aim, then releases with a long breath that’s nearly a groan. His elbow slips back as though pulled by a string and his hand slides to a stop just above his shoulder as his whole body relaxes against Dean, bow sagging from his hand.

The arrow flies true, slamming into the center of the cloth and Dean lets out a hiss of air.

They stand there for one, two, three seconds, until Cas leans down and sets the bow carefully on the ground. He turns in Dean’s grip and their eyes meet.

“Thank you, Dean,” he murmurs, eyes shifting to his mouth then back to meet his gaze. “I think I understand the use of this weapon.”

Dean nods, and suddenly his mouth is pressed to Cas’s and he’s not sure how it happened.

Cas freezes, arms stiff at his sides and mouth unmoving, and Dean’s eyes open and he’s just about to pull away and step back and pretend none of this happened when Cas comes alive in his arms, hands clutching in Dean’s flannel and mouth firm against his. Dean’s eyes slip closed again and he pulls away, panting, after a moment. He rests his forehead against Cas’s and can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

“I think I enjoy archery, Dean.” says Cas, voice even huskier than usual.

“Yeah, Cas? I think I do too.”

They don’t get much more shooting done that afternoon.

 


End file.
